


I Know I've Only Felt Religion (when i'm lying with you)

by thetidesisrising



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Halsey - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, i mention rape in here once so tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:32:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4746596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetidesisrising/pseuds/thetidesisrising
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're ripped at every edge but you're a masterpiece; a glimpse at a keenler relationship during and post season two without dialogue. (drabble)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know I've Only Felt Religion (when i'm lying with you)

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s a short keenler ficlet based off of some Halsey songs because she’s what I listen to when I can’t sleep. Please review!! xx

This, this is how they fall in love:

They usually spend their spare time in his bedroom. She likes to trace circles on his chest and he likes to fidget with her hair, twirling the ends between his nimble fingers. There is never anything sexual about it, the passion they harbor for each other is more than mutual, they’re just too broken to do anything about it.

If he’s assigned to another case, she finds herself lying on his bed, twirling the seats that smell of a fire pit and something so distinctively him that it brings tears to her eyes.

He does the same when she’s crusading with Navabi, except he hovers above her side of the bed, because yes, there is a her side of the bed. Her pillow smells more feminine, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

In the winter they tend to cuddle together, her in a denim button down and him in flannel, hot chocolate mugs on his nightstand.

She had always wanted to fall madly in love, ever since she was a child. She thought she had achieved that with Tom, but she did not achieve it, his betrayal a blatantly obvious demon of hers. But in the aspect of the not obvious things, Tom was an awful lover, he never ran his fingers across her ribs and pressed kisses to the crook of her neck, he never delicately massaged her trapezoid or kissed her tears away as they streaked down her face. Fuck, he was never gentle with her, always attempting to please himself before her.

Don was completely different, he treated her as if she were a princess, and she remembers that when she was a little girl her neighbor told her to find a man who treated her like the princess that she was. To this day, no one has given her better advice and if her neighbor had not died of Parkinson’s disease fifteen years ago, she would have brought Don to her.

She treats him beautifully as well; always clutching his hand in public and when they’re alone, she nips the sensitive spot behind his left ear, and plays with his fingers within hers. She makes sure to glance at him with as much love as she can muster, because he deserves it.

They try not to fight, due to the amount of pain they have both suffered from.

She still wakes in the middle of night, screaming in pain as her dreams paint vivid scenes of waterboarding. He cradles her then, his lips pressing against hers in the most loving way possible.

She had no idea that he was a creature of passion; he had seemed like a complete douchebag the first day that they had met and yet that façade had been so deceiving.

Sure, the voices inside of his head won’t quit, tearing him down only for her to attempt to build him back up again. He’s so fucking hard on himself, and she was right, all those years ago when she said that he was fueled by an inner rage. A wildfire of pain and fury ran beneath the thick layer of ice that contributed to his stoic personality.

It was what made them so beautiful, they were both so broken that the only thing they could do was attempt to refrain from cutting themselves on each other’s jarred edges.

They cried together more often than not, there was something glorifying about the ability to bare your scars to a significant other without having to be judged.

It was in this way he learned that she had been raped when she was fourteen, and he clenched his jaw in response, burying his face in the skin of her shoulder in an attempt for him to feel that she was truly there and not just a figment of his imagination.

This all changes when she’s on the run; they still cry, but it’s like before. He cries alone with the comforter of his bed as his only solace while she forces herself to silently sob at night because neither can take the pain.

It’s either hopelessly romantic or terribly sad to say that they thrive on each other, and that now that they’re apart they can’t even get out of bed in the morning, their hearts on the cusp of breaking.

And this, this is why you don’t motherfucking fall in love, is all they can think by the end, staring at the same stars.

Love is really fucked up.


End file.
